The Dream

 I have a dream
to fill the golden sheath
of a remembered day.
.
.
.

(Air
heavy and massed and blue
as the vapor of opium.
.
.

domes
fired in sulphurous mist.
.
.

sea
quiescent as a gray seal.
.
.

and the emerging sun
spurting up gold
over Sydney, smoke-pale, rising out of the bay.
.
.
.
)
But the day is an up-turned cup
and its sun a junk of red iron
guttering in sluggish-green water--
where shall I pour my dream?

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